Balmas

Breathless Dead

It's hard not to feel that this is her fault.

She told them to choose for themselves what they want to be. To seek within themselves, as she had, what they wanted to be for, to choose what purpose they'd pursue. And truth be told, every time she sees one dressed in a red robe, or guffawing amongst the Coherent, or mingling with the other groups, it sends a little twinge of joy in her. They listened! They're learning! They're growing! Even the partings, for all the sadness, share a note of bittersweetness as well. They're seeding themselves into the cosmos.

But fuck, they're so few.

She told herself that getting to know them--becoming familiar, learning names, pastimes, wants, dreams, would set herself up for more hurt down the line. And she wasn't wrong, either--she looks out at the grouped Alcedi in the meeting and can name every gap where there should be a person. If she'd been faster, or cleverer, or more responsible!--

It's useless to stay awake and ask the questions, replay the memories, tell yourself that if you'd been smarter, or better, or something, maybe you could have saved a few more lives. It's not your job to save them--they aren't your soldiers, you aren't their commander, there's no phantom Molech waiting in the wings to reprimand you for your failures. They are their own people, they owe you no loyalty.

But they're your sisters and brothers, and every empty spot gapes with those not there. And so, there's you, and the bed at night, and feeling vaguely guilty about not wanting to ask how you could do better.

Vaguely, she notices the question hanging in the air, and struggles to replay the last few seconds of conversation in her head.

"I'm sorry, Lacedo. I remember names and faces and friends, yes. But you've grown your own culture in the past two hundred years. I can tell what I remember, yes, but it's not what the Alcedi put together for themselves."

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at the diagram, and then back at the Hermetic. "… are we not just going to repair my old body?"

There aren't any eyes to be seen in the deep, hooded face, but somehow you can just tell they're rolling. "You had so many spears and swords shoved through that body that properly filling the holes would make you more gold than stone. At this point, it's simpler, easier, and more effective to build you a new body from scratch than to try to polish out all the dents on the old one."

It makes sense. She should have expected it, maybe. But she'd survived everything else in that body. She'd been stabbed, shot, hacked at more times than she could count. Hell, there was a crater on Barassidar with her name on it.

Maybe that's the point, really. She shouldn't have expected it to last forever, but still, the thought of losing it sends a pang of grief through her.

"So, any changes you want to make before we start to carve?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You've got a chance to rebuild yourself. New body. New shape. New decisions. Never gonna get a better opportunity to remake yourself. So, any changes?"

Alexa stares at the paper and scrunches her lips in thought. "…Can I have a day to think about it?"

***

"And you're sure this is okay? I mean, you all told me how stingy the Hermetics typically are with these things, how much they demand for it normally. It feels like cheating to jump straight to getting everything I want."

There's a burst of sharp laughter in the mess. It seems like every Coherent and Alcedi has shoved themselves around the table, flocking around to see the paper in the center.

Ramses taps the pencil against the paper. "I don't think anybody here would hold it against you, especially if they have to rebuild you from the ground up. So?"

Alexa purses her lips, and stares at the paper.

"It's funny, you know? I… I didn't really mind many things about my body. The only thing I didn't like, really, was that it always felt like it wasn't really mine."

She'd been built after a pattern, after a model. She was defined by being the Pallas Rex, by being the Athena who served the King. Before anything else, she was to evoke awe and be the symbol of Molech's power, that he could even bind the gods to his side.

"But 'Not Athena' isn't much to go on. Tall? Short? Broad?"

For a time, the only sound is the tapping of the pencil and the background of jostling for position.

"I think… No, I know, that I don't want to be a fighter. Or rather, I don't want fighting to be the thing I'm built for. I was built tall, and strong, with four arms for both offense and defense and to look like Athena.

"Strong. Strong is good. I like being strong enough to help my friends. I like giving good hugs, bone-squeezing hugs. I don't want to be a fighter, but I also don't want to be the burden who can't take care of herself.

"And tall is good. I like being tall. Maybe a little shorter? Tall enough to not have issues adjusting. I'd like to keep the arms, if nothing else, and that means I have a limit on how short I can be and still be proportional."

She goes quiet again, considering, before blushing and admitting, "I'd like to occasionally be the little spoon."

More chuckles, and one enterprising "get it!" from the back.

"More than anything, though," she admits. "I want to leave the Pallas here. I'm not her, anymore. I've learned lessons she never could. Let the Pallas be buried here, along with everyone else on Sahar. I want to move forward as my own person, not as the daughter of Athena or Molech. So I think I'd like a new head. One that can taste and laugh and cry and be Alexa, all on her own."

***

It's suffocating to be in the stone again. To know that any second now, the chisel will fall, and bits of herself will flake off, until all that's left is her.

But it's okay. Because the first thing carved is her mouth to cry out, and her eyes to cry, and her ears to hear her friends talking with her, and patting her, and assuring her that this is alright. And somehow, that makes it better.

Breathless Dead

The SP grenades touch down, and everything goes to shit.

Noise! Fury! Noxious gasses blind every sense except that of having half a desert planet shoved through eyes, nose, any open orifice. Hands grope in the smoke, voices call out for friends, and find the wrong shapes and voices answering. Lanterns scuttle to escape the chaos, Alcedi and Kaeri find themselves next to each other and reach for weapons, and one startled Kaeri finds herself holding the loudest rock she's ever heard.

"HOLD!"

It's the only thing Alexa can do right now. She can't defend herself from the blasts, can't cover her eyes, her mouth from the choking smells, but here, right now, she has one chance to make herself heard.

"Hold, you blithering idiots! The fight's over! I will not have you starting it again!"

Keep talking. Keep them focused on her. Keep them puzzled, interested, anything to keep them from realizing that she's just a head. Keep them from reaching for those weapons.

And, if she's being honest, keep herself from looking at the fight. Keep the sound in the background. Allow herself the luxury of cowardice, that she does not have to watch two people she cares for tear each other apart at her own behest.

Keep it going, so that when she finally calms the crowd, she only has to catch the last blast of purple smog, and feel her heart sink into her metaphorical shoes.

She urges the Kaeri holding her forward, and topples herself into the ground in front of the pair.

"Please. Please tell me you're okay."

And just for a second, she's not sure which of the two she's talking to more.

Breathless Dead

Sometimes, experience is a terrible thing.

See those mangled ruins surrounded by feathers? In her mind's eye, she can reconstruct it--piece together how the Kaeri struggled in Epistia's jaws. See the tracks in the ground where the Kaeri scrabbled, struggled, see where the frantic wingbeats scattered dust. See, there, the deeper footsteps, where Epistia reared back, shook until bones shattered, and then shook some more for the joy of it.

There: blood, a rapidly cooling brown stain, standing stark against the sand. Carotid, based on the Lantern head nearby. They'd all drawn back when Epistia landed among them, bit the leader's throat out, and tossed the body aside. But that was their mistake--that was movement, that was the chase, that was fun, that was the hunt. None of them get more than a hundred yards.

She's felt that power before. Known what it's like to have a god coursing through your veins, to be able to move with a certainty that's not your own. She wants to believe it's Ares doing the laughing, Ares treating this like a game. It's Ares, throwing a body, and then bowling through a phalanx with the excitement of the chase. It's Ares, drinking in the heady aroma of fear like the finest Ambrosia. It's Ares, Ares, always Ares doing this.

But it's not, is it?

Alexa's victims were no less bloody than Epistia's, to be sure. Her battlefields were left strewn with just as many corpses. But she never enjoyed it. There was an enemy, an objective, and punishment waiting unless she got the job done. There was the satisfaction of a clean kill, maybe. Of thrust, parry, riposte, all played out with units.

She'd seen it, in that first dance. Seen Isty, seen that ferocity, and thought, "there's a girl who can take care of herself." There's someone strong enough that I don't need to worry about her when I'm away. I don't need to worry about coming back to an empty library, because anybody who tries that is going to lose whatever hands they use to do it. Isty, who helped see herself as more than an expendable tool. Isty, who had the cutest laugh. Isty, who glares every time she suspects she's not being taken entirely seriously.

Epistia, who shows no pity for those she cuts down. Epistia, who is so young, so inexperienced. Epistia, sitting alone in a cafeteria, surrounded by the friends of those she hurt, declaring that they are the ones in the wrong. Epistia, so faithful in knowing that the people she hurts are people, but with not enough understanding of what that means.

That they're precious. That they have wants and needs. That it's a tragedy when even one is cut short, no matter how much glory and respect it wins you. That ending them--even if they're enemies--is a terrible thing.

Could Alexa have been fine with that, once upon a time? Put that away in her head, blinded herself to it, so long as Isty came home at the end of the day? Sacrificed everybody else, damned everybody else, so long as the person she cared for was safe?

It's a pointless question to ask, because no matter what past Alexa might or might not have done, present Alexa needs to see that Epistia is taken down.

Taken down. Gods above.

She barely has time to think the thought before she's passed to a Kaeri.

"Beljani!"

Dammit, she. There's no time to think, no time to assemble the words, to get it right.

"… Please."

There are too many words to be said. Please survive, please come back alive. Please, let there be more opportunities for me to get to know you better, since I was too inside my own head and up my own ass to do it before. Please, don't kill her. Please, I don't deserve to ask you this, but please. Please, please, please.

"I need to make this right. Please, don't die."

Breathless Dead

I have failed you, even though I did my best. I'm so sorry, even though I could do no better. I ran the race as hard as I could, threw everything I could behind this one goal, and it wasn't enough. I made all the right choices, could have made no other choices even knowing what I do now, would make those same choices again, and there's no world where those choices would be enough.

And you did, too. You ran just as hard as I did. Saying it doesn't change the situation we're in, doesn't magically solve the problems we face. But I saw. I witnessed. I felt the blows. You're amazing, and I could never ask for more than you gave, because you gave it everything.

She could be writing to anyone, our Beljani. Probably wouldn't use those words, exactly, but the emotions are there.

Nero. Hermes. She who ran to save her beloved people, ran as fast as she could, was just in time to see herself fail, just in time to see half the galaxy--half the people she loved--plunged into the afterlife.

Bella. Dear, dear Bella, who worked so hard. You did everything right, and so did I, and I'm so sorry we weren't enough to save each other.

Redana.

Mynx.

Herself, maybe.

"I," she starts, and goes quiet. The battlefield is too quiet, no sound but that of the pheromone-led crowd shuffling over sand.

"I might need a bit of time to actually write it out in my current state. But I know that emotion all too well. I can write it, Beljani."

Breathless Dead

Alexa's brow furrows.

"Would you like to be told you look fetching in that armor? I cannot imagine you choosing a tactical vest if a ballgown is available."

She sighs, and grudgingly admits, "You're right, though. It was rude of me to just expect your help.

"Letters, huh? What kind of letter, and to whom? You looking for composition tips, or just a scribe?"

Breathless Dead

There are times when Alexa wishes she were faster. Better able to put together thoughts, to assemble words, to line them up for a salvo without inspecting them for perfection. Every second of not replying is anguish, but she only has one shot at this, and they have to be perfect.

"No, Beljani. I'm snip snip because I didn't help my girlfriend. Because I put Redana and Sagakhan first. Because I told myself that Isty can handle herself to cover up that I don't know how to talk to her anymore. Because I couldn't help her back when I had a body, because I can't help her now. Because maybe we won't be girlfriends after this, because the things we value are just too different.

"And you don't care about that, I know. It's my mistake, my problem, my girlfriend, not yours. But maybe you care about keeping her from interfering in the fight with Sagakhan. Maybe you want that crusty bitch in the ground more than I do. And maybe it's a good idea, when you're relying on somebody's favor, not to let her die. So it's in both our interests to calm Isty down enough that we can focus on putting Sagakhan down. And then, providing we survive this, you can collect your favor afterwards."

[Talk Sense, 6,5,3. +1 if with Wisdom, +0 if with grace. If with Wisdom, this also triggers Speak Only When You Mean It.]

Breathless Dead

It's hard to get rid of stress when you don't have a body, do you know that?

Shrrrk. Hssss.

In times of old--say, five minutes ago--it would have been so easy. Physical activity, that's the ticket! Take a jog around the ship. Feel the ground strip away before you. Pound the ground, step after step, devouring the earth until stress and stressors are far away. Or maybe something in the kitchen! Try a new recipe, something out there, where there's no space in the brain for anything but figuring out how to do this. Put the stress in a limb--let it bounce, tap, twitch, anything to get the energy of the body. Movement, motion, distractions. None of which are options now.

Shrrrk. Hssss.

What did she used to do, back when any kind of motion would get her punished? Find a corner of her head, right? Get lost in a fantasy, leave the mouth and brain on autopilot, trust that Molech wouldn't want to hear from her anyway, so who cared if she spent the next few hours daydreaming?

Hah. If she were in a situation where she could daydream, she wouldn't have to stare at Hades digging, and feel vaguely guilty about wanting him to dig faster.

Shrrrk. Hssss.

Which makes no godsdamn sense. He has been nothing but kind and helpful.

None of which means she wants to try stress relief technique number 3: talking about it.

Because she's painfully aware that it's his daughter on the line. He's being incredibly polite about not mentioning how she didn't run to save Isty as soon as she was able. Hasn't brought up the way that Alexa has been so inside her own head that she's been…

Well, kind of a shit girlfriend. And maybe, probably, not even that soon.

But she'll be damned if she lets Isty die, no matter what. So as soon as the lid is pried off the coffin, she's leaning forward as far as her limited neck will allow, leaning forward until she pitches down the hillock of earth and into the coffin.

"Beljani. Been a--stop screaming, it's just me--been a while. I need a huge favor from you. You hate Sagakhan. We do too. Help save my girlfriend now, please. I don't have a whole lot to offer right now, but if we survive this, I'll be in your debt."

Breathless Dead

All this time, she'd been worried about an impossible knife in somebody else's chest.

How? When?! She knows how this should go, knows how to fight somebody with a spear, but It's hard to think. Every time she almost collects enough of her wits to string two thoughts together, another blow knocks her around. Things are shutting down--no, she is shutting down! Parts are starting to grind and catch, glistening fluid is leaking out, Sagakhan is saying something but she can't hear it over the rushing in her ears--

Step by step, blade by blade, she's forced back, forced down, until she's pinned to the ground like a butterfly. She's slow--too slow, too dull, eyes losing their glow, their ability to focus--

And then her world spins crazily around her, the pain is a vanishing memory, and in the clarity granted by that lack of pain, she knows instantly what's happened.

This is fixable, she tells herself, jolting off a step.

She's come back from worse, she lies to herself. Fell from orbit. Pushed herself into the heart of a star.

She careens off a badly angled bit of pyramid, and is treated to a brief view of Redana crushing Sagakhan's jaw in before her head spins away. God, that girl. She's gonna go far.

This isn't the end. Her story is just beginning. She's not dying on some dustball nowhere planet. Dany's gonna wipe the floor with this psycho, the coherents will find her head, something can be done to sort out all the new holes in her old body, she'll be fine.

Intellectually, she knows all of that is true, but it still feels like a lie when looking into the kindly eyes of the god of the Dead.

She tries to talk once or twice, makes a few false starts of it. Can't bring herself to look away, can't turn her head even if she wanted to. Can't nod with no neck.

Eventually, feeling rather small, she whispers, "I'd like that, please. Is Isty okay?"

Breathless Dead

All Alexa can see is that impossible knife. Another soul gurgling its last, chest heaving to capture breath through lungs with too many unexpected holes. Another future friend cut down--or maybe a peer, or a rival, who knows--but somebody she'll never get to know. Somebody who's gonna bleed out into the sand of this dusthole nowhere planet, all so that some psychotic bitch can fulfill her lunatic scheme.

Not today. Not here, not them, not now, not ever.

So when the next Bloodfeather descends, Alexa and her hammer are there, swinging like a champion slugger at a ball.

See, there, the instant the universe holds still. See how those Kaeri eyes, so full of bloodlust and confidence, flinch, turn to confusion and then panic, as the hammerhead draws close, consumes her entire vision. See the moment the hammer makes contact, how flesh mushes and molds itself to the hammer's surface, squishes out sideways. See the beautiful follow-through, see her step into and through the blow, the muscles bunching and pushing the perfect silver arc of the hammer, see the feathery comet hurled back up the pyramid.

Home run.

The Bloodfeather frenzies, spasms, throws her knives, inflicts her deadly worst in her death throes. But too late, too far.

And people see, and fall behind, and for now, these people will see tomorrow.

The second Bloodfeather is similarly battered away, while the third is pounded down, down, into and through the stone of the pyramid.

And now there's a wedge, and a flaw in the perfect replica. As below, not so above, and Sagakhan cannot help but pay attention to this new threat.

Once, twice, thrice, the sarissa lances out. And once, twice, thrice, Alexa catches it on the Aegis, fends it off. Once, twice, thrice, Alexa responds with additional craters on the surface of the pyramid.

On the fourth strike, the Aegis shatters. But that's okay--Alexa's expecting it, waiting for it, stepping forward and into, pinning the sarissa under one arm and bringing the other elbow hammering down onto the shaft.

"Dany! Now!"

[Keep Them Busy: 2,2,2,+3. 7. Paying the Aegis as a price or acting against a threat to the world.]